


Cops Prefer Croissants

by KitsJay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Bakery AU, Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakery!AU. Monroe runs a bakery, Nick is clueless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bakers Prefer Biscotti

Monroe didn't know _every_ customer who wandered into the Full Moon Cafe. It was a popular place, from locals who knew about his gourmet coffee that was always just the right temperature to the tourists who read about it in the most recent, "Explore Portland!" brochure. 

He recognized a few faces, however—mostly the regulars who walked in yawning or tapping on their cell phones, but always managed to give him a smile as he handed them their order. It was soothing, comforting. There was something therapeutic about putting in a new batch of muffins, brewing the coffee that permeated the entire room and made his nose twitch, mixing the batter together for the slices of cranberry cake, and repeating the entire process all over again in an hour. 

The shop wasn’t large enough to afford too many employees and yes, okay, Monroe had some control issues but after the last college student who had begged him for a job managed to _set his muffins on fire_ , he didn’t think it was wrong to be a little protective. Among the employees he had kept, there was the pretty redhead named Juliette, slinging half-caf double whipped soy milk lattes behind the counter when she wasn’t working on her homework for vet school, who had been around for three years now and had a deep and meaningful relationship with his espresso machine that even he considered sacrosanct. Then there was the morning man, Wu, who was snarky and insulted all of the customers, yet also knew exactly how much a dozen glazed doughnuts, two chocolate eclairs, three small coffees—one with extra cream and sugar—and a croquembouche cost without glancing at the pricing _once_. 

It was just them: Monroe the Baker, Juliette the Barista, and Wu the Cashier against the Starbucks across the street trying to steal his business with their undercooked pastries and overpriced coffees.

And really? He was okay with that. It was like a really boring comic book, but Monroe _liked_ boring. He liked routine and simplicity and everything that one Nick Burkhardt was not. 

 

Nick Burkhardt had wandered into his store one morning, leather jacket tossed over a long-sleeve t-shirt, and ordered a large coffee with fake cream-- _Philistine,_ Monroe thought, rolling his eyes--and a dozen red velvet cupcakes.

The cafe went quiet.

"I'm sorry?" Monroe said, a dangerous growl in his voice that anyone else knew meant _do not go there_ but apparently sailed over Nick's head and continued into the Columbia River, straight on into the Pacific.

He blinked, confused, gave a little smile and repeated, "A dozen red velvet cupcakes?"

Monroe stared at him for a moment, unwrapped his, "Are you the cook? No? Then shut up!" apron, and turned to face Juliette, whose face was caught somewhere between wanting to laugh out loud and take pity on the poor soul who didn't know any better.

"Explain to him the mortal sin he has committed," he said, jerking a finger toward the hapless Nick and making his way into the kitchen. The smell of pastries baking into light, fluffy bursts of mint and lemon and berry wafted to him and clung to his clothes. There were smudges of flour on the counters, a bag of opened sugar tucked into a corner, and a pile of dirty dishes to be washed in the sink. Through the swinging door, he could hear Juliette's sympathetic voice explaining the situation to Nick.

As Monroe rolled up his sleeves and dunked the dishes into nearly scalding water, he growled to himself. If bakers could have an arch enemy--and they could, Monroe knew, they _totally could_ \--red velvet cupcakes would be his. Of all the myriad cookies, cakes, pies, and exotic pastries he served up every day, with twists of lemon on this one and sprinkling of powdered sugar on that one, each and every one of them were delicious. They were sheer perfection. He could bake anything, because he was a Baking _God._

Except for red velvet cupcakes.

It didn't matter the recipe, the time he put into it, the ways he modified it here and there, they always turned out as dry as sand and as flavorless, or a soggy mess in the middle and burnt on the outsides. 

Most of the regulars made the mistake only once and no one ever asked for them again.

Until this guy.

The guy with the stupid hair and the stupid eyes and the stupid muscles and the stupid, stupid way he had asked for red velvet cupcakes.

Dammit.

Juliette poked her head in and glanced around. "Have you gotten over your tantrum yet?" she asked.

Monroe waved her in with a soapy hand and resisted the urge to scratch his nose, which miraculously always decided to start itching whenever he started washing dishes. Juliette smiled at him and walked over, scritching his nose for him without even asking.

"I don't throw tantrums," he sulked. "Also, you're amazing," he told her honestly as she managed to scratch just the right spot.

"All part of the service," she chirped cheerfully, swinging herself up onto one of the counters. "I got rid of him for you."

"Double amazing. Do I pay you enough?" 

"No, but I don't take it personally. You couldn't afford what I'm really worth."

This was, in all probability, very true.

She was looking at him speculatively. "So... that guy."

"Yes?" he growled.

"Veeeery cute," she said grinning. It had taken her approximately two minutes of working with him to figure out he was as gay as a Judy Garland song, another minute to discover he was single, and about 3.1415926535 seconds after that for her matchmaking instincts to kick in.

He pointed a finger at her, which was not very intimidating as a lone bubble flew off the tip and popped mid-air. "Don't even think about it, yenta."

"I'm just saying!" She held up her hands in front of her, but the sly grin was stuck in place.

Wu shoved his head into the door and wrinkled his nose. "Your buns are burning," he said deadpan to Monroe, who cursed and dug out some oven-mitts to pull them out. Wu turned his attention to Juliette. "And your not-so-secret admirer is here."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be out in a minute."

Monroe looked up from the pan, eyes alarmed. "Is that guy still bothering you? Do I need to go chase him off?"

"Take it easy, dad," she said playfully, swinging herself from the counter gracefully. "I got this one."

Despite his grumbling and general grouchiness for his employees, he felt a weird protectiveness for them. They were hard workers, even if they did bitch and complain when he put them on sweeping and wiping down the tables duty, and Juliette especially attracted customers from miles around who ogled her and generally made Monroe's hand itch for the broom to shoo them away from her. 

That said, Juliette was more than capable of handling them herself.

He peeked his head out and watched her turn her mega-watt smile on the latest Romeo-to-be, a small man with dark hair and a smarmy smile that looked like it sold snake oil for a living. His name was Buddy, or Billy, or something similar, Monroe remembered. He watched Juliette give a peppy, "Hi, what can I get for you today?" to the man.

He leaned on the counter with one elbow. "How about your phone number, gorgeous?"

"Ooh, I'm afraid we don't have that," Juliette replied, smile still firmly in place. 

"I'd settle for a date."

Juliette widened her eyes. "Fresh out of that, too! Have you tried the gentleman's club downtown? They might have something you can afford."

Monroe stifled his laughter in his apron. 

Buddy/Billy looked affronted and muttered, "Just give me a latte, please, with soy milk. I'm very lactose intolerant."

"Coming right up," Juliette said cheerfully, and Monroe pretended not to notice when she added regular milk and handed it to the guy. "Have a nice day!" 

She waited until he was almost gone before shouting loudly, "And good luck finding a date!"

"Well done," Wu gave a slow clap. Juliette curtsied. 

"Thank you. That man gives me the creeps." She shuddered. "He's not half as charming as he thinks he is."

"They never are," Monroe said mournfully. Juliette's smile melted and her eyes got warm and soft. Monroe held up his hands. "No. No. Don't even think it."

He paused, seeing both Juliette and Wu staring at him speculatively. Great. Just what he needed, his employees to join the "Get Monroe Laid Union". Colleagues in cahoots is not what he wanted in his bakery, thank you very much. 

"Get back to work!"


	2. Employees Prefer Eclairs

“I’m giving baking lessons?” Monroe repeated, eyebrows disappearing into the mop of hair on top of his head. It was bushier and more tangled than its usual wont, as he had spent another sleepless night experimenting with red velvet cupcakes—dammit, dammit, _dammit_ \--and ended up with a counter full of something that was emphatically not red velvet cupcakes and may not have even been food. It was composed of food ingredients, but could definitely make a strong case of plausible deniability if someone ever accused it of being edible.

“You’re giving baking lessons,” Juliette confirmed as she tacked another flyer up on the window. He trailed after her to the counter, watching as she put up another one of the neon yellow signs in his window.

“Why am I giving baking lessons?”

“Because tuition went up and I need a raise. Also, you need new aprons.”

Monroe put his hands protectively on the knot of his favorite apron, a beige one with the “Periodic Bagel” on it. “There’s nothing wrong with my aprons. I hate giving baking lessons. If I teach people to bake, they won’t buy my food anymore. Are you sure you’ve thought this through? This is a terrible plan.”

“It’s a great plan,” Juliette corrected. Wu nodded in agreement behind her, munching on a slice of coffee cake and reading the latest Terry Pratchett novel. She beamed at him. “See, Wu agrees!”

“Wu just doesn’t want me to shout at him for _eating the treats made for the customers only_ ,” he shouted pointedly, somehow not surprised when Wu ignored him. He got no respect around here. He turned to face Juliette again. “Remember how I used to be the Big Bad Boss? And you all respected and feared me? Weren’t those good times? Can’t we go back to those times?”

“There was never such a time,” Juliette said with a pitying look on his face. She patted his cheek. “Cheer up! It’ll be fun, I promise. And you don’t have to teach them to bake _well_ , just give them the basics. How about teaching people to make eclairs?”

“Most people don't even know what eclairs are. They keep calling them 'long johns', the heathens. I’m not teaching a class full of people who microwave their dinners how to bake them.”

“Fine, how about those raspberry tarts you like so well?”

He thought about it. They weren’t _that_ complicated, and it took a lot of skill to fold them just right, which meant he would have more opportunities to give a fake smile and pat them on the head and tell them, “Good job!” the way parents praise their spawn’s latest attempts at drawing a realistic dog. It was one of his few pleasures in life, really, making fun of people who didn’t know what they were doing in the kitchen.

“Fine,” he said with a sigh, “But only because you’ll nag me incessantly if I don’t.”

Juliette smiled at him like he was a dog who had just learned a new trick. “You’re learning!”

 

The important thing that Juliette _entirely neglected to mention_ was that only one person had signed up for the class—a cute young guy with big gray eyes and, “Oh, for God’s sakes, what are you doing here?”

“Uh, baking class?” Nick asked, holding up a flyer. “Your barista threatened to cut off my coffee supply unless I signed up for it.”

Which pretty much confirmed what Monroe had always suspected: Juliette was a secret genius. All this time he thought she was one of his team, the Bakers and Coffeemakers Team, holding out against the world with him, when really she was a traitor just waiting to sink the knife into his back. He should have known when she insisted on only wearing the black apron. Only villains wore black.

“Will you excuse me for one moment?”

Without waiting for an answer, he fled into the main room, where Juliette was sneaking out the door, just like a supervillainess would. 

“Halt!” he said in a commanding voice. Juliette’s hand froze on the handle. He stalked toward her. “Why is there only one man in my baking class? The one who ordered the Cupcakes Which Shall Not Be Named and the one you said was cute?”

Juliette turned around, her expression appallingly not guilty. “You would make a cute couple,” she shrugged. “Wu and I talked about it and this seemed like a great way to get you together. Think about it. You two alone, you holding him in your arms to show him how to fold the dough just right so that the raspberry filling oozes out—”

Monroe held up a hand. “No! There will be no talk of oozing!” He grabbed her arm and led her further away, hissing, “You don’t even know he’s gay!”

“Oh, he’s gay,” she said, with a knowing look that implied she did, in fact, know he was gay and probably could name all of his favorite songs, his previous partners, and what he did on the weekends to relax. She probably could. Juliette had strange and mystical powers which were not meant for the minds of men to know. “He’s definitely gay. And what are you doing out here?” She checked her watch and pushed him toward the door. “He’s waiting for you. He’s going to think you don’t like him! Go forth and make wild, passionate ferret-y love!”

“I don’t think ferrets make wild, passionate love!” he shouted back at her through the door. He turned to see Nick still sitting at a counter, his expression vaguely trapped. 

“Uh,” Nick said intelligently.

“That made sense in context, I promise,” Monroe assured him.

“That’s kind of what I was afraid of,” Nick said, but it was with a smile, so Monroe figured he was okay and not wondering if the tall baker with the unbrushed hair was going to kidnap him or something.

“Right. Well, there will be no further talk of ferrets, because this is Baking 101,” he barked. He rolled up his sleeves, not at all showing off the toned muscles of his forearms from years of kneading stiff dough, and tied his apron securely around him. “Today we make raspberry tarts.”

“I thought you were showing how to make eclairs?” Nick wrinkled his nose. “That’s what your barista said.”

“She lied. She does that a lot. I’ve been trying to beat it out of her, but she refuses to be cowed.”

“Ah.”

“Raspberry tarts: what do you know about them. Go.”

“Uh, they’re… good?”

Monroe stared at him, appalled. “Good? That’s it? You can’t even muster up an adjective better than ‘good’?”

Nick shrugged. “Delicious?”

“Better,” Monroe admitted grudgingly. “A little prosaic, but definitely an improvement over ‘good’.” 

“I’ll bring my thesaurus next time,” Nick said, and Monroe was forced to re-evaluate his former assumption that the man was all sugar and may actually have a little bit of spice to him. He mentally slapped himself for entertaining the thought. Bad baker, he told himself sternly, do not listen to Juliette. She is clearly evil, remember?

“Have you ever baked before?” he asked to distract himself, pulling out the assorted ingredients needed. Nick watched him with fascination as he unerringly discovered the grater tucked away behind a stash of mixing bowls, the spices that were organized by an arcane system known only to Monroe, and the essentials needed for the dough and filling. 

“My aunt and I used to make cookies and stuff sometimes.”

“Was she any good?”

“The best,” Nick said with a smile that faded as he looked at the counter. “She passed away recently.”

“Oh,” Monroe shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Cancer, you know?” Nick looked up at him again. “Honestly, even if your barista hadn’t threatened me, I probably would have signed up for this class. Plus, she’s, um, kind of scary.”

“Your aunt?”

“Your barista,” Nick corrected. 

Monroe nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. She does that to everybody. You don't get used to it."

 

An hour later, Monroe was surprised to find himself actually enjoying Nick’s company. The man had a wicked sense of humor underneath that butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth façade and when Monroe snapped at him for doing something wrong, he gave as good as he got. It was… kind of hot, honestly, and he wasn’t talking about the ovens preheating. 

He peered over the shoulder of his only student, who was delicately folding the dough into a criss-cross pattern on top. 

“That’s pretty good,” he grudgingly admitted. “Though you want to make sure to tuck the ends in so that it doesn’t come apart in the oven.”

He tried not to stare as Nick bit his lip in concentration, agile fingers deftly tucking the soft dough into position. Nick sighed. “Can you show me? I can’t seem to get that part right.”

Steadfastly ignoring his inner Juliette voice, which was cackling in glee right now, Monroe stepped behind Nick and guided his hands. He had made these so many times that it was second-nature to him by now, but slowing it down and showing Nick how to get them just right so that the presentation was pretty and functional, Nick's hands held loosely in Monroe's own, his warm body leaning against Monroe’s chest, his ass pressed tight against his--

He coughed and took a step back. “Looks like you got it.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, and he did something weird with his eyelashes. Was that a smolder? He had never seen one up close, only read about them, but Monroe could _swear_ that was a smolder. It looked just as hot as those cheap paperback romances that Juliette occasionally left and Monroe most certainly did not read made it out to be. 

Monroe panicked. It wasn’t something he did often, but like a smolder, apparently he knew it when he saw it. “I, um. I was wondering if you’d like,” and dammit, why was this so hard to get out? “I was wondering if you’d like to get some coffee.”

“Uh, sure, I’d love some,” Nick replied, looking somewhat confused. Monroe could have slapped himself. Coffee? Really? At a coffee house? Way to go, Monroe!

“I’ll just go get some,” he fled the scene to gather his thoughts. As the coffee machine bubbled cheerfully, completely ignorant of his current plight, he lightly banged his head on the wall beside him. 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid. So much for the universal pseudo-date. Buck up, Monroe. Ask him out on a proper date.”

After his pep talk, he poured the coffee into two mugs and returned. He set one of them down and was about to clarify his previously botched attempt at romance when Nick took a deep, appreciative sniff of the coffee and let out a tiny little moan that did horrible, wonderful things to Monroe’s insides. 

He did not whimper, but he would have liked to.

“My partner and I love your place,” Nick said with a smile. “He’s going to be bugging me to make these all the time now.”

Partner, Monroe’s mind repeated, like he hadn’t heard it clearly the _first time_ , thank you, brain. 

“Oh,” he said, trying to keep his disappointment out of his voice. “Is he—”

What was he going to finish that sentence with? “Is he okay with you sleeping with the baker of the place?”. He could feel himself starting to panic again, and like his one aborted attempt at chocolate dipped lemon drops, disappointment and panic really didn’t mix.

Nick finished for him, thankfully. “Hank? You’ve probably seen him. He’s about this tall,” he gestured somewhere a few inches above his own head, “comes in and orders the sweetest thing off the menu?”

Monroe remembered. The man was handsome, with a deep voice that sounded like melted chocolate. They probably looked great together, Hank’s arm wrapped around Nick’s waist, his smooth voice mixing with Nick’s softer one. Monroe didn’t have a snowcone's chance in an oven.

“Yeah,” he said dully. “I remember him. Well, cooking class is over, so I guess you’d better get home.”

Nick looked confused at being rushed out, and honestly, Monroe felt a tiny bit of a heel for doing it, but seriously, he couldn’t take waiting around for the cutesy “how they met” stories coming out and when their anniversary was and what bed and breakfast they were going to celebrate. He hated that stuff from normal couples, much less a guy who he had nearly made an ass out of himself to just a few minutes ago.

He looked expectantly at Nick, who gathered up his things and left, shooting him odd looks as he went.

Staring at the mess they had created while laughing and doing what Monroe was reasonably sure could be called flirting, he felt an overwhelming apathy toward cleaning it all up. Morose, he washed one of the mixing bowls and found a recipe for red velvet cupcakes in one of his cookbooks.

If he was going to be disappointed, he might as well be disappointed at something he actually had a shot at.


	3. Lovers Prefer Lemon Tarts

“What’s wrong?” Juliette said immediately, entering the shop to the merry little tinkle of the bell that Monroe seriously considered ripping out of its socket and stomping on every time the door opened. He didn’t know who had installed the stupid thing in the first place. Probably Wu, if only for the ironic value of a surly baker’s shop having a cheerful bell. Stupid little hipster.

“How do you know something’s wrong?” Monroe snarled, handing a frightened patron their wrapped lemon tart. The patron fled. Curiously, the bistro tables with tile mosaic tops and plush chairs were all empty today, save for one oblivious student with headphones jammed firmly in his ears. 

Juliette looked at him before doing a meaningful sweep of the empty café with her eyes. Monroe sighed. “That’s it?”

“Well, that and you’re wearing the ‘I stole this apron!’ apron. You hate that one. Plus, I saw the debris in the kitchen. Did your date not go well?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, my date did not go well, because it wasn’t really a date. It was a set-up by a nefarious employee who needs to recalibrate her gaydar.”

“He isn’t gay?” Juliette sounded surprised.

“No, he is,” Monroe said brightly. “He’s also very much taken. That’s spelled F-U-C-K-O-F-”

Juliette held up her hand for him to stop. “Seriously? I honestly thought—oh, _sweetie_ ,” she cooed, and Monroe braced himself for a hug. It came as expected, complete with the little petting motions women made when other women were upset. It felt kind of nice, actually, though he’d never admit it. “I’ll make you some of your favorite tea and a bagel with cream cheese, okay?”

Sometimes Monroe wondered why he kept Juliette around, but it was at times like these that he remembered: she was _awesome._ Even if she did make a mistake and try to set him up with a guy who was cute, funny, and so very not available. She spent the rest of the day coddling him, shooing him into his kitchen haven and dealing with customers herself, handling all of them with that same scary efficiency that made him nervous, because she could clearly run the entire shop by herself if she wanted. It was kind of nice to be pampered, sometimes. A cup of warm tea and a poppy-seed bagel slathered in herbed cream cheese worked twenty times better at calming him down than any of those meditation techniques his pilates teacher encouraged them to practice.

He could feel the disappointment and stress easing out of him with every tray of cookies he put in the oven, each delicate icing flower he piped onto the _petit fours_ , and the fact that though he never caught sight of Juliette once, his mug of tea remained mysteriously filled the entire day.

When six o’clock hit and the doors closed, he almost felt relaxed again. Juliette wandered in, a sympathetic look on her face. “Now are you ready to tell me about what happened?”

“Can we skip the gorey details?” Monroe pleaded with her. Unfortunately, his unmovable object proved to be incredibly mobile when faced with Juliette’s irresistible force. It was a losing battle, but one he always fought anyway, because it was the principle of the thing. If he let the employees think they’d won, he’d never win their (occasional) respect again.

“Spill,” Juliette demanded, dragging over a stool and watching him work. He sighed, brushing off the flour from the counter and wiping it down with a clean wet rag. 

“Fine. It was going great, we were laughing, he smoldered at me—”

“Smoldered?” Juliette’s eyebrows were as high as her voice.

“Smoldered.”

“Are you sure it was a smolder?”

“It was definitely a smolder,” Monroe confirmed. “I was just about to ask him out when he mentioned his partner.”

Juliette winced. “Ouch. What a jackass, leading you on like that!” Monroe, being somewhat fond of his head where it was, as opposed to somewhere else not attached to his neck, wisely did not point out that it was more Juliette’s fault for trying to set him up with a man who was taken. “I am so sorry, honey, I wouldn’t have done it if I had known.”

Great, now he felt like an ass. 

He waved off her apology. “It’s fine. You lose some, you lose some.”

“I think the phrase is, ‘You win some, you lose some,’” Juliet said with a sad smile.

“Not in my experience,” Monroe muttered as he viciously wrung out his cleaning rag over the sink.

 

Monroe was possessive of his kitchen. Somewhat territorial, in fact. Even Juliette and Wu, who were the closest things he had to friends, weren’t allowed to touch anything more complicated than oven mitts when they were in the backroom. If he could claim to have a sanctum of any sort, it was his kitchen, the small, cozy mess that felt like home and smelled like cookies. For the next week, he retreated back there and licked his wounds, feeling a little silly because seriously, he had known the guy for an _hour_ , and unlike some Disney princesses he could name, he did not fall in love in an _hour_. 

Annoyed with himself and his newfound teenage girl impulses, he donned his camouflage apron, which was the manliest apron he owned, and was tackling the newest batch of peppermint biscotti that he was mere moments from getting right when he heard it: Nick’s voice, talking in quiet tones on the other side of the door. 

Daring a peek outside, he saw Juliette giving Nick one of her frostiest glares. He looked mostly confused. 

“Sorry, no coffee today.”

“Uh, how can a coffeehouse not have coffee?” Nick asked, not unreasonably, Monroe thought.

“We just are. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do, so move along?”

She was positively icy toward him, and although Monroe wanted to be the better man and would completely tell her not to actively drive away anyone who may or may not have led Monroe on, he couldn’t help but feel a thrill of vindictive pleasure at the way she was handling things. That was loyalty, right there.

“Good girl,” he whispered, disappearing back into the kitchen.

He heard them continuing their conversation and was just checking the biscotti when he heard Juliette let out a squawk. 3…2…1… She banged through the door, righteous anger all over her face. Without missing a step, she walked over and slapped him upside the head.

“Ow!” Monroe yelled. “What the hell was that for?”

Wu poked his head in to see what all the commotion was about.

“You _idiot_!” she hissed. “He’s a cop!”

“What? Okay? So?”

He could _feel_ her resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “So? So he’s single, you moron! His partner was his _cop_ partner! And you ran him out of here like a—Argh! I spent all day coddling you, you gigantic moron!”

Somewhere along the way, Juliette’s handslap and mad rantings and the words ‘single’ pinged in Monroe’s brain, and his jaw dropped. “Wait, wait, he’s—and I—so he’s probably—“

“Really confused about why the guy he was _obviously hitting on_ chased him out suddenly? Thinks you’re homophobic or something? Yeah, all of that.”

It all sank in and sat there, like a brick of bread that refused to rise deep in his stomach. He sagged down onto a chair and buried his face in his apron, moaning a little. “Fuck.”

There was a brief silence, then Juliette sighed and sat down next to him, patting his back. He could hear Wu snickering. “Okay, here’s what you do. You go, you apologize, you tell him that you’re an idiot, and you ask him out.”

“Also, bring him something sweet,” Wu chimed in. They both looked at him and he shrugged. “It’d work with me. Fastest way to a man’s heart and all that.”

“Okay, that’s actually not a bad plan,” Monroe said, thinking about it. He stood, plaid shirt covered with flour and smelling faintly of peppermint extract, camo apron firmly tied around his waist, and hair destroyed by his hands carding through it. “Shoo. I have baking to do!”

 

Through a little “creative computering”, as Wu called it, and what the rest of the world probably referred to when they said “hacking”, and Juliette’s own esoteric skills, they managed to dig up Nick’s address. Juliette was fussing over Monroe’s clothes, surreptitiously trying to replace the sweater-vest with a plain jacket, while Monroe panicked.

“Is this okay? I mean, it’s a little creepy. And cops are paranoid. He’ll probably shoot me as soon as he sees me.”

“He won’t shoot you,” Juliette scolded him. She gave the brown sweater-vest, one of his favorites, a considering glance. “Actually, if you wear that, he might.”

“Just go,” Wu said, shoving him out the door. “It’ll be fine, we promise.”

“That’s… actually supportive.” Monroe paused. “I didn’t know you could do supportive.”

“Of course I can. Also, dibs on the cake when this doesn’t work.”

Monroe gathered all the dignity he could while wearing a tie from 1986, driving a Volkswagen Beetle, and talking into a Bluetooth to his two employees, who apparently were romantic saps somewhere beneath their evil and snarky exteriors. “I’m driving up the street. I just stopped at a stop sign. I’m—“

“Okay, really, we don’t need to hear every detail,” Juliette’s voice interrupted him. “Just find the guy and let us know how it goes, okay?”

There was a click, and he found himself utterly alone standing in front of a well-kept, moderate house in an older neighborhood. It was landscaped fetchingly, with little rose-bushes along the sides and the lawn was neatly manicured. He raised his hand to knock when the door swung open, revealing Nick wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt, hair mussed as if he had fallen asleep on the couch while watching television. He perked up when he saw Monroe, then wrinkled his brow.

“Monroe?” he asked, glancing around outside, as if he expected someone else to be standing there.

“Here,” Monroe said, shoving a wrapped loaf of bread into Nick’s hands. “I brought you Icelandic Christmas cake.”

“It’s not Christmas,” said Nick bemusedly.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not Iceland, either. Can I come in?”

“Um, sure,” Nick held the door open for him, leading him into the entryway. The house had wood-flooring, plush leather couches, and the minimal decorating style that screamed bachelor. None of the knick-knacks accumulated from two people living together cluttered up the place, no pictures of a happy couple smiling at the camera with happy expressions. He felt something inside him ease. “Do you want a beer?”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

Nick passed him a bottle and arched his eyebrow. “So what brings you over this late at night?”

“Is it late? Fuck, this is why I need a clock in my kitchen,” Monroe cursed, realizing what time it was. “I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

“No, really, it’s fine,” Nick said with a smile. “Seriously, I was just watching a game. What’s up?”

Monroe fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. “Listen, the other night, at the baking lesson, um, were you—were you flirting with me?”

Nick’s beer paused halfway to his mouth. He carefully lowered it, rolling it between his palms and carefully not looking at Monroe. “That… kind of depends.” He laughed self-consciously, looking up at Monroe through his lashes. “Would you mind if I were?”

Monroe gaped at him. “Seriously?” he managed. He flailed incoherently at Nick for a moment. “Look at you! It’s pretty much like some cheesy fairy tale where the handsome prince walks into the surly baker’s shop and the baker falls madly in love with him!”

Nick looked amused. “Madly in love?”

“In like,” Monroe said immediately. “I meant madly in like.”

“Right.”

“So, uh, the reason I came over was because I wanted to ask if you wanted to, um—“

“Get some coffee?” Nick asked with a grin, and Monroe nearly hit himself in the head.

“Low blow. Look, I’m not good at this stuff, obviously, but I brought you food and that’s practically a courting ritual to my people.”

“Your people?”

“Bakers.”

“Ah. I take it this is your way of asking me out on a date?”

Monroe nodded impatiently. “Yes, that’s what all this is leading up to. So?”

Nick gave him a sly grin and slid off the counter. He wandered into the pantry and began pulling out baking goods, organizing them all on the small island in the center of the kitchen. Monroe watched him with fascination and growing anticipation. “Tell you what: you show me how to do the weird criss-cross thing with the raspberry tarts and I’ll teach you how to make red velvet cupcakes.” He raised an eyebrow. "Deal?"

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Monroe said with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, you shouldn't ever give real dairy to someone who is lactose-intolerant, but I found that guy super skeezy and he got off pretty mildly in this fic considering.


End file.
